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His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Prudence reminded him that he was a county magistrate, and parliamentary candidate for a somewhat difficult borough, where his principal supporters were dissenters of strict principles who took a zealous interest in his moral character. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents.
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